


Guys Like Us

by enviropony



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, First Date, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-02 17:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21165128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviropony/pseuds/enviropony
Summary: After three months, Ray catches Stanley eyeing a guy on the street with something like appreciation, and he thinks,Maybe now's a good time.





	Guys Like Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theae/gifts).

“The first time I sucked a guy off,” Vecchio says, “I was fifteen, and I loved it. Hottest, filthiest thing I’d ever done. Wanted to do it every day. I stood out on West Madison with a bunch of hookers a couple nights, let guys pay me for it.” He slides down the wall next to Ray, sits on the cold concrete beside him. His wool coat brushes against Ray’s arm, but he doesn’t try to touch Ray. “The last time I sucked a guy off, I was nineteen. I had this crucifix on a heavy chain, and he had the chain real tight around my throat, trying to choke me with it. His buddy had a gun to the back of my head. Afterward, he fucked my mouth with the gun. Had his finger near the trigger the whole time. I was sure he was gonna blow my brains out. I still got the groove from the front sight on the roof of my mouth.”

Ray glances over at him, real quick. He catches a glimpse of red-rimmed eyes and a bobbing throat, but Vecchio’s voice is steady.

“So I get it, Stanley. I been there. You don’t gotta be ashamed in front of me, all right?” Vecchio leans over just a bit, bumps his shoulder against Ray’s. “All right?”

Ray cringes, shrugs. "Easier said than done."

"Yeah, I get that, too," Vecchio says. 

They fall into an oppressive silence, sitting there on the chilly floor of Ray's garage, Ray's foot brushing the Goat's front tire. When Vecchio stretches out one long leg, it ends up under the Goat's bumper.

"You ever have to do anything like that as the Bookman?" Ray asks eventually, nagged by morbid curiosity and no small trace of fear. “Hurt someone like that?”  
"Nah, I lucked out," Vecchio says, maybe a little too easily for the weight of the topic. "He loved his girls but he didn't like to force them. I would have been a dead man otherwise. No way could I have faked enjoying that. And guys, he just liked the goons to beat them stupid. Weird for a town like Vegas, but the mob there was arrow-straight. I figure they got rid of guys like us as soon as we popped up."

"Guys like us," Ray echoes. "I didn't think I was guys like us, you know? Not till Fraser, not really."

"But Benny ain't guys like us," Vecchio says with a trace of melancholy.

"You too, huh?"

"Hell yes, me too! I got eyes, don't I? And he's just... You gotta have a heart made of stone to not love a guy like him."

Ray sighs. "Yeah. He let me down easy, you know? Like, real easy. And he's never acted weird since."

Vecchio chuckles. "You're a braver man than me, Stanley. I never got up the guts to say a word. I think I knew what he would have said." He turns to Ray, drawing his leg back up, his whole body shifting so he's facing Ray head on. Ray keeps staring at the Goat's headlight. "You're way braver than me. A queer cop is a dead cop."

“Wasn’t gonna be a cop, up in the territories," Ray says. “I was gonna be a mechanic. Nobody cares about a queer mechanic.” He snorts, bitter; self-loathing crawls up his spine. "Doesn’t matter. Even if I was looking to be brave again, who's gonna want me now? I don't see a lot of blow jobs in my future."

Vecchio is silent for a moment. "If that's a deal-breaker, Stanley, that's not a guy you need anyway." He looks down, lips quirking, and Ray has the feeling that he wants to say more about it, but in the end he just shakes his head. "You got coffee or something? I'm freezing my ass off."

Ray breathes in, slow and steady; breathes out. He catches a glimpse of himself in the chrome bumper, and jerks away. "Yeah. Yeah, I got coffee. Let's go upstairs."

\- - -

Ray keeps his mouth shut for a week, then a month, then two. Stanley gets better, or some version of better. He can look Ray in the eye after a week, and after two, he stops wincing. A month later, he still can't stand to be touched: flinches if Dewey slaps him on the back, snarls a challenge when a condescending FBI agent tries to pat him on the shoulder. After two months, Ray can nudge him or poke at him, but he's still wary around other people. Ray doesn't know if he still has nightmares, or if he sleeps with a light on, or if he does any of the hundred little things Ray still does to keep memories of Vegas at bay.

But after three months, Ray catches Stanley eyeing a guy on the street with something like appreciation, and he thinks, _Maybe now's a good time_.

“Busy tonight?” he asks as they’re wrapping up for the day. He straightens a stack of paperwork, like he’s not invested in the answer.

“Beer and curling tonight,” Stanley says, shoving his own paperwork wholesale into a deep drawer. Ray despairs of having to be the one to sort it later. That’s the way it always goes.

But... “Curling? Bullshit, Stanley. You do not watch curling.”

“Olympic qualifiers are coming up.” Stanley slams the drawer shut and stands, grabbing for his jacket. “Fraser’s got a phone right now, but no television, and he wants to be kept updated. So my sorry ass is watching curling tonight.”

“Mother Mary,” Ray grumbles. Well, not ideal for a first date, but what can a guy do? “Want some company? I’ll bring you that Polish beer you like.”

Stanley doesn’t quite freeze in place, but there’s a brief stutter to his movements. “If you want, I guess,” he says. “I left a moose steak out to thaw this morning. We can have steak and potatoes for dinner. And cauliflower. I gotta use up the cauliflower.”

Okay, does it still count as initiating the date if Ray’s the one getting fed? But he’s bringing goodies. “I’ll bring dessert, too, how’s that sound? Ma made cannoli yesterday.”

Stanley perks up. “Won’t say no to your ma’s cannoli. Match starts at eight. Get there whenever.”

\- - -

They’ve hung out before, either together with Benny or just the two of them, winding down after a long case, but they’re not as close as most of the other duos in the precinct.

And they haven’t hung out after hours since the... thing. Ray still can’t call it what it was, what it is. He’s pretty messed up about it; sees the shrink once a week for that, and then his FBI one for the Bookman stuff that he can’t talk about anywhere else. It’s been two years, and he’s still hashing out that nightmare. Sometimes he feels like he’s just spending all his time reacting to all the bad shit that’s happened to him, instead of moving forward with his life. 

Hell, every couple of months he wakes up crying, the weight of Irene’s dead body in his arms.

So maybe Ray’s not such a hot catch himself, he thinks as he goes to buy two different kinds of Polish beer, because a couple of the labels look similar and he does _not_ remember which one Stanley likes better. But he gets what it means to be hurt like Stanley was, to be a queer cop, to be in love with Benny, to live someone else’s life... He’s not sure if it’s a good foundation for a relationship, but he’s started with worse. If nothing else, he thinks Stanley will get it when he says he does not fucking want to talk about it right now, thank you.

He knocks at the door of Stanley's place around 7:45 - not too early to make it awkward, not too late that they'll be scrambling to lay out the snacks and beer before the game - match? whatever! - starts. Ray figures one of them can work on dinner while the other takes notes on what's happening on the screen so they can fill in Benny tomorrow. 

Okay, so Ray's usually much smoother than this on a date, but he's never tried this with a guy before. What a lady expects and what Stanley expects are bound to be two different things.

Also, Stanley doesn't actually know this is a date.

\- - -

Ray tries not to question why Vecchio suddenly wants to hang out, because he's not entirely opposed. He's been actively and intentionally avoiding people for the past few months, but at the same time feeling more alone than he can remember.

He tries not to question it, but paranoia rears its ugly head. Vecchio feels sorry for him. Vecchio's Ma made him do it.

Vecchio's angling for something.

All the same, when Vecchio knocks on the door, Ray lets him in and points him to the couch. "Take a load off. There's a bottle opener on the side table; pop one open for me."

Vecchio doesn't snark back like he usually would, just hangs up his coat and drops his bags on the coffee table. He pulls out a six-pack of Zywiec and one of Okocim. "I gotta confess, I don't actually remember which one of these you liked."

Ray shrugs. "They're both good. Stick one pack in the fridge. Do we wanna start with the cannoli or save it for dessert?"

"Depends, how long will it take to cook the steak?"

Ray heads back to the kitchen area. "Not long; I pan-sear them. The vegetables are already done; I got 'em warming in the oven. Turn on the TV; Fraser's gonna do that face if we miss anything."

Vecchio laughs as he reaches for the remote. "The I'm-disappointed-but-I-don't-deserve-good-things-so-I-won't-mention-it face?"

"That's the one." Ray pulls the steaks out of the fridge and rummages for the big frying pan.

"How are you going to see it over the phone?"

"Vecchio, I can _hear_ that face!"

Vecchio waves him off, but it's good-natured, more so than Ray is used to from him. He brings over Ray's beer, then sits silently on the couch through the opening analysis. He pops up and heads for the kitchen during the first commercials, by which time Ray has the first steak frying. 

"Stanley, that smells amazing." Vecchio leans on the island that separates the kitchen from the living room. "Didn't know you could cook like that."

"Anybody can fry a steak," Ray says with a shrug, idly poking the sizzling meat. He looks back up at Vecchio, who's observing him with a weird, soft look on his face. "What?"

Vecchio's lips twitch. "Nothing." He glances away, then catches Ray's gaze again. "You look good, Stanley."

Ray looks down at his ratty t-shirt and sweatpants. "Are you high, Vecchio?"

"Nah, I just mean..." Vecchio full-on frowns. "I just mean you seem like you're doing well."

Ray's whole body stiffens when he realizes what Vecchio means, and he has to take a couple deep breaths. Even then, his nerves buzz, just enough adrenaline released to knock him off kilter. "Let's not go there," he says, or rasps, because his throat is suddenly dry. His beer is on the island, closer to Vecchio than he actually wants to get right now. He turns back to the frying pan.

"Fuck," Vecchio mutters. "Sorry. Sorry." Ray can hear him take a swig of his own beer. "Hey, should I be taking notes for Fraser? How much detail does he want?"

Ray snorts, half at the awkward change of subject, half at the ridiculously valid question. "Yeah, probably," he says, voice still rougher than he wants. "There's a notepad somewhere under the coffee table, and pencils... I don't know, maybe on the bookshelf?"

Vecchio scarpers to rummage around, and settles in while the commentators start rehashing the first team's crappy season.

Ray's been paying a little more attention to curling than he really wants to admit.

He flips the first steak onto a plate, puts foil over it and sticks it in the oven. As the second steak begins to sizzle, he sighs and gives in and starts poking at Vecchio's dumbass comment.

The way he'd looked... Ray would have said it was fondness, on anyone else, but he and Vecchio are _not _ fond of each other.

Even if there's literally nobody else Ray can tolerate in his apartment right now. He thinks he'd be wigged out it even if it was Fraser. Vecchio, though. Vecchio's been chill through the whole thing, saving for when it was actually happening. He'd screamed his fucking head off, trying to get those assholes to leave Ray alone, but after, he'd been solid rock at Ray's side - at the ambulance and at the hospital and while a couple of rookies tried to question Ray and realized they were in way over their heads. 

He's been patient and supportive and just generally not like the Vecchio that Ray has known for so long. It'd be weird, except he's still a sarcastic asshole and doesn't hesitate to give as good as he gets. He just doesn't go for the throat anymore, that's all.

Ray has to wonder if this is them finally gelling, red ships and green ships, but that nagging little voice still insists that Vecchio wants something.

Ray has never been good at ignoring that voice, even _before_ everything. 

He listens to the commentary with half an ear, smirking at Vecchio’s perplexed exclamations, while the second steak cooks. Once it’s done, he pulls out a couple plates, takes everything else from the oven, and haphazardly distributes the vegetables into two portions. He slaps a steak on each plate, grabs utensils and a roll of paper towels, and just barely makes it to the coffee table without dropping anything.

“Classy, Stanley,” Vecchio says, eyeing the paper towels. He takes a bite of steak and shuts his stupid mouth on an appreciative hum. 

“Good, huh?”

“Outstanding. What’d you season it with?”

“Salt, pepper, some garlic and onion. Also the blood of its enemy,” Ray says, just to see Vecchio’s face turn sour.

“Gross.”

“I’m serious.” Fuck it, it’s embarrassing but he’s telling this story. “We had to drag it to Fraser’s cabin with a snowmobile after I shot it, but I’d tied some of the knots wrong and I slit my hand wide open when I was trying to cut through the rope. Down to the bone, almost. I, what-do-you-call-it, hemorrhaged all over my clothes and the moose before Fraser got my hand warm enough for it to stop. Did you know cold blood don’t clot?”

Vecchio stares at him, clearly horrified. “Christ, Kowalski, I’m trying to eat, here!” Then he blinks. “Wait, you killed this thing?” He eyes the steak with apprehension. “You looked it in the eye and then you put a bullet in it?” 

“That’s usually how it goes,” Ray says, reaching for Vecchio’s plate with his fork. “Hey, if you don’t want it, I’ll trade you. I got all this cauliflower.”

Vecchio pulls the plate close to his chest. “Hell no, this is my moose steak! Go shoot yourself another one.”

A cheer goes up from the crowd on the TV, and Ray winces. “Crap, I hope they recap whatever just happened.” The screen shows only a pair of stones scattered across the house, and damned if he can figure out what the big deal is, so early in the first end. 

“How long’s this match go, anyway?” Vecchio cuts into his steak again, hunching over the plate like Ray’s still got designs on it.

“I don’t know, it’s two or three hours of coverage.” Ray reaches for the pencil and tries to figure out what to write.

“Listen, if Fraser wanted the blow by blow, he should have gotten his ass somewhere with a television, right? Just get the highlights. Eat your vic.”

“Now who’s being gross, Vecchio?”

\- - -

So Ray enjoys himself, as the evening wears on, but he never quite forgets his suspicion of Vecchio. 

The coverage ends at eleven, only to be followed by a recap of the hockey qualifiers Ray had missed seeing because of work.

“I dunno if I want to stay up and watch this,” Ray mutters, scrubbing at his face, “or stay up and watch this.”

“Go to bed, Stanley,” Vecchio says from the kitchen, where he’s cleaning up the mess from their meal. “You got work tomorrow.”

“I got sick days!” He doesn’t, actually, but he can take an unpaid day, it’s fine.

Vecchio comes back from the kitchen, and kicks him in the ankle. “Go to bed. I better see your ass at work tomorrow.”

Ray blinks up at him, expecting annoyance, but he sees that same soft look again, the one Vecchio had earlier tonight. “What do you want?”

Vecchio blinks, too. “What?”

“What do you want, Vecchio? I know you’re after something.”

Vecchio looks a little caught out, breaks eye contact, scratches at his head. Ray thinks he’s going to deny it, but he says, “You’re a pretty good detective, all evidence to the contrary.”

“You’re an asshole,” Ray shoots back, only half joking.

Vecchio shrugs. “Yeah. Hard not to be. But uh, listen. Can I sit down?” He gestures at the bit of couch he’s been sitting on the whole night.

Ray tilts his head, not saying anything, and Vecchio plops down, looking kinda nervous.

“So, uh… Fuck, I’m usually way smoother than this.” Vecchio scrubs his hands along his legs, like he’s got sweaty palms or something.

It comes to Ray that maybe they’re not gelling at all. Maybe Vecchio’s fed up with having to coddle Ray, be careful about what he says, how he acts. Maybe tonight was like the last hurrah, a friendly parting – a last meal before the gentle letdown that he doesn’t want to be partners. And the asshole made Ray cook.

“You trying to break up with me, Vecchio?” he asks. His nerves tingle, but he thinks his voice sounds all right.

Vecchio startles. “What? No! No, I’m not–” He’s a pretty fucking good detective, too. “I’m not trying to say we gotta stop being partners, Stanley! What the hell?”

“You’re being weird,” Ray defends.

“It’s the opposite,” Vecchio says in a rush.

That… doesn’t make any sense. “We’re already partners, doofus.”

“Uh, we’re cop partners,” Vecchio says, awkward, “but I thought maybe, uh, maybe we could try being, you know, partner partners.”

Ray can’t help but stare. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Vecchio fidgets, picks at non-existent lint on his pants. “Life partners.”

“Life…” Ray trails off, staring at Vecchio, who looks like he’s thinking he might have fucked up. “You saying you want to date me, Vecchio?”

Vecchio nods, short and sure, despite his worried face. “Yeah. I want to date you, Stanley. I want to see if there’s more to us, because I feel like there is. I feel like we got something, you know?”

Ray doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what to think, or what to feel. He wants to snap back at Vecchio, wants to throw his sorry ass out the door, wants to know what the fuck Vecchio thinks – that just ‘cause they’re both queer, that they gotta be together? Just ‘cause Vecchio saw Ray get fucked in the mouth by a couple of punks–

But a year up in the tundra with Fraser taught him to stop reacting and think a minute, or he’d wind up falling face first into another fucking crevasse, so Ray takes a deep breath and then another one, and keeps on doing that for a bit. He can feel Vecchio fretting next to him.

“You feel sorry for me, is that it?” Ray finally asks when he’s cooled off. “Or you think you owe me something? Or does this just look like a sure thing to you, another queer cop who’s never gonna go for anyone else because he got raped?” It’s the first time he’s said that word, talking about himself.

“None of that, Stanley,” Vecchio says, not hesitating. “None of it. I never felt sorry for you for a minute, and I don’t owe you any more than any cop owes his partner. But it fucking hurt me to watch them do that to you. It hurt so much, I can’t describe it. I just know I spent every night since then wishing I could hold you, and tell you it was gonna be all right.”

Well. Ray takes another deep breath, because it stirs something in his chest, to hear Vecchio say that. 

There’ve definitely been a lot of nights he’s wanted someone to hold him, and tell him it was gonna be fine. 

He looks up at Vecchio, his shaved head and his wide eyes and the anxious twist to his mouth. Vecchio feels familiar, and comfortable, and dependable. They hadn’t like each other for a long time, but Ray’s always known he could trust Vecchio, because he’d been Vecchio, and that’s one thing that came clear from being with the man’s friends and family. You could count on Vecchio. In the end he always came through.

Relationships are a two way street, though. “I don’t know if I got anything to give you, Vecchio,” Ray warns. “I can’t promise you a fucking thing right now.” 

“Just promise to try,” Vecchio says. “Can’t hurt, can it?” He holds a hand out, wiggling his fingers. “Hold my hand and try.”

Ray takes the offered hand, feeling smooth, warm skin and gun calluses. Vecchio squeezes his fingers, and as Ray squeezes back, a tingle of anticipation runs through him, so sudden that it makes him laugh. Vecchio startles, but Ray holds on tight. “Don’t you let go, now!”

Vecchio grins, bright and sure. “I got you, Stanley. I got you.”

\- end -


End file.
